The servant appeared. Emma understood, and asked
how much money would be wanted to put a stop to the
proceedings.

“It is too late.”

“But if I brought you several thousand francs—­a
quarter of the sum—­a third—­perhaps
the whole?”

“No; it’s no use!”

And he pushed her gently towards the staircase.

“I implore you, Monsieur Lheureux, just a few
days more!” She was sobbing.

“There! tears now!”

“You are driving me to despair!”

“What do I care?” said he, shutting the
door.

Chapter Seven

She was stoical the next day when Maitre Hareng, the
bailiff, with two assistants, presented himself at
her house to draw up the inventory for the distraint.

They began with Bovary’s consulting-room, and
did not write down the phrenological head, which was
considered an “instrument of his profession”;
but in the kitchen they counted the plates; the saucepans,
the chairs, the candlesticks, and in the bedroom all
the nick-nacks on the whatnot. They examined
her dresses, the linen, the dressing-room; and her
whole existence to its most intimate details, was,
like a corpse on whom a post-mortem is made, outspread
before the eyes of these three men.